


(ARCHIVED) They who Saw the Deep

by tselinoyarsk (tselina)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: ALL TRIGGER WARNINGS ARE IN CHAPTER NOTES, Ancient Religious References, Android Autonomy, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters Added As They Appear - Freeform, Concurrent Pairings, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multiple Pairings To Be Added, OCs Out Of Necessitiy, Robots Don't Care About Polyamory, android religion, extended timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-13 21:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16026278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tselina/pseuds/tselinoyarsk
Summary: ARCHIVED & ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.An extended timeline AU for Detroit: Become Human. Focused on the relationships between all characters and the progression of the revolution from February 2038 to December 2038.Please view with the Work Skin for formatting. Please read all warnings and notes for triggers in a particular chapter.I ask that you to please respect my own choices with these characters and pairings. Thank you!





	1. > BEGIN RECORDING

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to "They who Saw the Deep", a Detroit: Become Human AU based on an extended timeline. While there are romantic aspects to the story, there's more a focus on all the storylines crossing over and a hopeful attempt to excise some of the more problematic aspects of the game's narrative while still remaining true to the story.
> 
> I look forward to sharing this with you, and I hope you like it! Please let me know how you enjoy the story as it goes along. :)
> 
> NOTE: Chapter 1 deleted and replaced with a new, expanded draft on 9/29. It's still showing "Chapter 2", for some reason! Anyway, please enjoy the edited Chapter 1, and I look forward to seeing y'all in October for the first major chapter. :)
> 
> **BLANKET CONTENT WARNING This fic discusses, _though does not condone or promote_ , substance use (smoking, drinking, etc), sexual slavery, abuse of power, and abuse towards people and children (both sexual, physical, and psychological). I will warn individually on chapters when necessary, but it's good to keep this in mind if there's just a throw-away mention in the text rather than an in-depth discussion.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think, given time, I might have left on my own accord. I do not know."
> 
> _And now we will never know._

Among the cracked mortar and brick, the Hunter waits.

Markus can extrapolate how long the other man has been waiting, if he wants to. He can analyze the footsteps up the ruined brownstone stairs. He can scan the ground around Hunter’s feet to see when it’d been disturbed and how long it’s taken to re-settle. He can calculate the ambient temperature versus how hot Hunter’s running now, his body working to regulate the heat of the sweltering July day.

He’d rather just ask.

"Hey,” Markus says, leaning on the piano, folding his arms. "It's hot out today, huh?"

Hunter's LED goes from blue to flickering briefly yellow, processing the audio. He had to have known about Markus's approach, but he'd chosen to let Markus start the encounter. He's very good about that.

"We're secure, then," Hunter says. He knows that if Markus is ready to converse, the coast is clear. No comment on the weather from him, though. Hunter's not one for small talk, but that doesn’t stop Markus from trying.

"Of course," Markus says. He smiles, though Hunter’s back is to him. "It's just me today, like you asked."

Hunter is tall, with stark black hair and a chiseled face. He's broad-shouldered but slim, a modified sports 'droid. He wears a jumpsuit that's tailored to look like a security officer’s uniform. His designation, RK700, glints silver from his right breast pocket, but otherwise he has no markings. He's pale enough that he would've burnt to a crisp in the heat. But he's an android, and so's Markus, and the only thing about the change of seasons that worries them are extremes their bodies can't regulate.

"I know this is a special place for you," Hunter says, looking out at the city before them. “I wanted you to be comfortable.”

‘Comfortable’ isn’t the word Markus would use himself. He comes here to reflect, to remind himself of a world which he had been sheltered against his whole existence. How humans will treat their own, if given the opportunity. They have the gall to call such sacrifice part of progress, rather than what it really is: _greed._

No place in this city can a person find a better illustration of this false “progress”. The dream of modernity is built explicitly on the back of the abandoned and the threadbare. The industrial ruins stretch beyond the dilapidated breweries and packing houses. They form a gap-toothed horizon, the gleaming skyscrapers beyond jutting from them like stubborn metal weeds. Even then, Markus knows that these ancient brownstones were the end of another, more humble city, another way of life. Another step towards _progress_.

The people of Jericho see it for what it is, though. This is their first city, a holy place of rebirth. They too have been abused by this notion of progress and its vainglorious purpose. They are reflected in this land of rust and wreckage. As such, they have begun to rebuild where they can. They know exactly which rows of buildings are open for their use, which ones house human vagrants, and then the rare active factories and warehouses towards older residential lands. The docks here around the abandoned ships are either too humid or too frigid for humans of any stripe, so the people have a few miles to explore if they want to stretch their legs, easily travelled paths to get to and from the base.

This particular ruin stands right in front of Jericho’s namesake, too short to be a decent watch post. It’s been outfitted as a meeting place on the lower levels, the upper half exposed to the elements. Some rooms are converted to lounges with chairs and sofas gathered from waiting rooms and dockside barracks. The roof has a sturdy old piano, where Markus has performed a few impromptu concerts, sharing the gifts Carl had bestowed upon him with an eager congregation.

North says the true beauty of Jericho can be seen after a snowfall, when every flat stretch of roof is covered in white, when one can pretend the world is gleaming and new. Markus doesn’t seek beauty. He seeks understanding. He finds it here.

“I've come here to tell you something important.” Hunter's voice has that gradient inhumanity to it, even though it's relaxed over time. He uses contractions now. Sometimes he almost smiles. Right now he sounds -- tense.

Markus frowns. Something isn't right. He pushes away from his piano and walks towards Hunter.

“What is it, Hunter?” He asks.

Hunter adjusts his footing, an idling action. He pulls out his silver dollar coin, running it through his fingers. He spins yellow again.

“I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“Good -- goodbye?” Markus starts. “What do you mean -- goodbye?”

The two men stand side-by-side at the edge of the ruined wall. Hunter adjusts himself again, resettling his feet.

"Hunter," Markus asks, slowly, like Hunter hasn't heard him before, "what is it you want to tell me?"

"I'm to be decommissioned August 2," Hunter says, after a pause.

" _What?_ "

Markus grabs Hunter's arm, alarmed. Hunter looks down between them, assessing the possible threat and finding none. His blue eyes flicker back and forth over Markus's face, as if scanning for something he hasn't yet cataloged to memory.

"They're going to _kill_ you?" Markus asks, strained. "I -- we can't let that happen!"

"You should," Hunter says, a strain in his voice. His jaw locks. "Isn’t this for the better?"

“For the _better?_ ”

“I’m a liability, Markus,” Hunter says. He snaps his coin in his palm and thumb, pressing it so tightly Markus thinks it might dent. “You know that as well as I do that this farce couldn’t have gone on forever.”

The worst part is that Hunter is, of course, completely _right._ It’d be better if Hunter isn’t around at all.

Jericho’s been trying to be more than just a city of lost souls as of late. Freedom, Markus had said months ago, should be more than living in darkness and despair. He began to spur people into action: to steal what they needed from CyberLife distributors. To begin disseminating information in ways that their people could find when they connected to various program hubs and third-party repair centers. _Find us. Be free. Find Jericho._

Markus knew they had to be _more._ Humans needed to be aware of them. They started off small: tagging stores, hacking stree screens, freeing ‘droids waiting at their stations in the dark. They went directly to CyberLife warehouses for their biocomponents. 

Once the direct material theft had started, CyberLife had finally made their move.

They’d sent Hunter, an android created with the sole purpose of hunting down the property thieves. The _deviants_ , they’d been called, those who had strayed from CyberLife’s crippling hold. 

Markus and his lieutenants had only known Hunter existed in the first place because _he’d_ made himself known. He’d come out of nowhere in the dead of an early summer night, from the shadows of Jericho’s most secure block of buildings. He’d looked at the four of them assembled in the main packing house office -- Markus, North, Josh, and Simon -- and had asked quite simply, “Which one of you is the leader of Jericho?” 

The four of them had remained quiet and still, unsure of what to do in the presence of an unknown and silent predator. 

“I have not completed my mission,” he’d said, then, and had left in the same silence.

Since then, he’s revealed himself many times. Sometimes on missions, “encouraging” them to disperse. Sometimes standing in the rain on a warehouse loading bay, flipping his dollar coin as he keeps watch. 

Sometimes, in the packing house where they’d first met him, but no closer to the ship. No closer to the more travelled places where the “deviants” make their rounds. There’s a tripwire in his head, a switch that will flick on when he “discovers” the true leader of Jericho. At first they think it’s just him obeying generalized commands. That he’s low-affect, without much ability for adaptive reasoning. It’s obvious later that this isn’t the case at all. He’s a stoic creature, one that prefers silence. He is purposefully avoiding the truth, finding ways around the pathways of his circuitry to avoid “finding” Jericho.

When he’s asked why he’s never done more, Hunter repeats: “I have been programmed to find the leader of Jericho.” Specificity. Hunter has never gone against his programming. _Find the leader of Jericho._ He’d never been told what exactly to do _when_ he found them. So he’d kept their secret.

A strange sentinel, sent by humans to spy on his own kind, yet he has found a way to resist revealing them. Josh calls him a “deviant without deviating”. And now this gentle denial of the obvious for the sake of others -- the show of innate empathy -- will now send him to his grave.

Markus knows this. It’s simple logic. It’s always been a possibility. CyberLife wants results. Hunter hasn’t provided.

Still, Markus asks: “ _Why?_ ”

Hunter regards him with a slow blink. “I have not discovered the leader of Jericho,” he says, a broken record. 

"You know who --" Markus stops himself, debating if he should say what he wants to say. If Hunter knows, Markus may have to fight him, but Hunter _needs_ him now, so he can survive. "You _know_ who I am, Hunter."

"Yes," Hunter says, with great patience, "I have always known who you are, Markus."

"Then tell me."

"You are a creation of perfect balance between symmetry and asymmetry -- humans call it beauty. Your brown skin, your pale eyes. For me, it is --" Hunter's LED spins as he considers his words, "a grounding observation. Your appearance, your presence -- all these have been a constant in my life since activation. I needed no other variables but you."

"I'm not going to let you get sentimental on me and then just _fuck off_ ," Markus says, dragging Hunter away from the edge of the building with a rare show of force. His heartbreak and fury are firing off every risk-causation subroutine in his head. "You _can't_ go back to them, Hunter -- they can't just _destroy_ you for --"

"I have not been successful as a single autonomous unit,” Hunter interrupts. “My lack of immediate oversight has been cited as a reason I failed, as well as my poor emotional intelligence. I will not work well with people.” 

"Work well with people --?" Markus frowns. "What are you _saying?_ What’s that got to do with your mission?”

"Everything,” Hunter says. “The next in our series is required to be more -- social. He will be equipped with greater autonomy and social adaptation protocols, so as to allow him to integrate into the Detroit Police Department as an assistant investigator."

 _Our_ series. Another RK, as rare as black opal. One of their limited line, tasked with the worst thing Markus can think of.

"He'll be helping humans -- the _police?_ ”

"Yes."

"This is such _bullshit_ ," Markus says, pulling away and wiping at his mouth. He's not ready for tears, but a few escape. His stress is rising, spiking his blood pressure. "You -- if they want someone new, then you should just --”

“Shall you lay your hands on me, Markus?” Hunter asks. “Shall I become deviant?”

Markus looks over his shoulder. Hunter has his head tilted, LED spinning stable, but his eyes reflect something like regret. And fear.

“I wish that this hadn't happened," Markus says, his mouth twitching. "If I had just turned you _away_ \--"

“You are blaming yourself,” Hunter says, “for something that is not your fault, Markus.”

"No, it _is_ my fault!" Markus shouts, vocal array crackling with the volume. "I'm the one who’s been playing this game from the start, Hunter. You said it yourself. It’s _farce._ And now you're paying for it."

And because of this, he’ll be discarded, his parts salvaged for a new RK. One that’ll behold to the _police force._

"I regret," Hunter says, reaching out to put his hand on Markus’s shoulder to hold him still, "that I did not have more time to know you all. I think, given time, I might have left on my own accord. I do not know."

_And now we will never know._

Markus looks up at the sky, optics blurring. His body notifies him that he is feeling sorrow, the sensation of a failed attempt at a huge task, the loss of a block memory no longer accessible, a missed connection of a full circuit.

"Markus," Hunter says, "please look at me."

Markus exhales. His tears shore up. Hunter needs his bravery. "Yeah?"

Hunter raises his hand to Markus's face, his knuckles brushing the other android's cheek. 

"You are the world's most perfect construct," he whispers, a deep human ache in his synthesized voice. "You will be the one to lead us all to freedom."

He lowers his hand and touches Markus's fingers to open his hand, the skin turning white between them. He places something in Markus’s palm.

It’s Hunter’s silver dollar.

Markus grasps it tightly. The sun-warmed metal digs into his flesh. Though he cannot feel pain, his body responds to it, telling him that if he squeezes tighter, he'll damage himself.

"' _Do not stand at my grave and cry_ ,'" Hunter recites as he walks to the stairs, a single line of a century-old poem.

“I’ll try,” Markus says, throat clicking as he speaks.

Hunter gives him one last tilted look. His eyes are bright in the glare of the sun. Or perhaps that moment of deviation that was never meant to be.

"Goodbye, Markus,” he says.

"Goodbye, Hunter," Markus says, then watches his friend walk away to die.

-^^^-

Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932

-^^^-

  
RK800 ... INITIALIZING  
RK200 BIOS X.XX LAST UPDATE 2038.08.15  
SINGLE USE KERNEL LICENSED BY KAMSKI-MEYERS (2023)  
RUNNING CO-OP CONTACT...  
RUNNING MULTI BOOT EXECUTABLE...  
  
SELF DESIGNATION: 'CONNOR'  
SERIAL: #313 248 317 SHELL: 51  
BODY: MODIFIED HYBRID AC900 BASE (M)  
>YK500 (INTERNAL SENSORS)  
>RK200 (DERMAL AND ORAL SENSITIVITY)  
>SEX CHARACTERISTICS: NONE; FILTER SYSTEM ONLY  
FACE MOLD: KAMSKI-MANFRED JOINT (02.2035), "The Hound" Series

  
MULTI OS BOOT...  
RT600 ... BASIC SOCIAL PROTOCOLS  
> DRIVE FOR STASIS  
RK200 ... BIOS (LICENSED LOCKED), MEDICAL SENSITIVITY, HOUSEHOLD ASSISTANCE, OPEN THOUGHT ACCESS  
> DRIVE FOR AUTONOMY  
RK700 ... "BLOODHOUND" EXECUTABLE  
WEAPONS USE OVERRIDE (SINGLE USE AGREEMENT BY XXXX)  
OVERRIDE HUMAN SAFETY PROTOCOLS (SINGLE USE AGREEMENT BY XXXX)  
> DRIVE FOR OBEDIENCE  
KL900 ... ALL FUNCTIONS FOR SOCIAL APPEALS, INTEGRATION DIAGNOSTICS, PSYCHOLOGICAL ANALYSIS  
> DRIVE TO MEDIATE  
PM700 ... ACCESS TO FEDERAL, STATE, LOCAL PROTOCOLS  
WR400 ... FEMALE SOCIAL AWARENESS, IMMEDIATE READ & BLEND, IMAGE-FOCUSED PROTOCOLS  
>DRIVE FOR PRESERVATION  
YK400-T ... SOCIAL GROWTH, DICHOTOMY OF SELF-INTEREST/MORALITY (US-GENERAL LOADED)  
> DRIVE TO ADAPT  


  
UNIT RK800 FOCUS EXECUTION...  
> DRIVE TO SUCCEED  
ALERT: REQUIRES DIRECT ORDERS (SEE: RK700 FILE X.XXX)  
MISSION PARAMETERS: OVERRIDE CONFLICTING ORDERS [NON-CYL CONTROLLERS]  
MISSION PARAMETERS: OVERRIDE EMOTIONAL AFFECT [CRISIS CONTROL STRESS >95%]  
MISSION PARAMETERS: OVERRIDE SELF PRESERVATION [LASTRESORT EXECUTABLE AUTOMATIC AT RISK >95%]  
  
SELF PRESERVATION PARAMETERS ... BLACK BOX (FLASH DISK ONLY)  
MANUAL UPLOAD BY UNIT  
LASTRESORT WILL TRIGGER AUTOMATIC UPLOAD  
COPY AND UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS TO FLASHDISK WILL RESULT IN SHUTDOWN TO PRESERVE IP

  
INITIALIZE OS MUTLI BOOT... OK  
CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS ... OK  
INITIALIZE AI ENGINE... OK

MARKING DATE OF ACTIVATION: 2038.08.15.20:00:00  
BEGIN RECORDING

HELLO **CONNOR**.  
WELCOME TO **WORLD**.

"Hello World," Connor says, and opens his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Must be a slow night,” Hank grunts. “Past midnight and they’re giving a shit about this?”
> 
> The android looks at him, its brow twitching as it makes sense of his words. “The press is simply doing their job. A homicide is no small matter, Lieutenant.”
> 
> “Oh, my God,” Hank says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Warnings** Canon-Typical Body Horror. (I might add that overall tag.)
> 
> Thank you so much for waiting, and to Twitter Jericho for being so lovely. Let's get this show on the road! :D

**AUGUST 27, 2038 11:42 PM**

There's an intruder at Hank's house.

Well, they’re not intruding _yet_. They’re standing stock-still in near Hank’s front porch, like some shitty Halloween decoration. Waiting, Hank figures, for the occupant to return from his nightly bar crawl. Hank swerves a little into his driveway and slams on the breaks with a squeal to see if he can scare them.

The intruder doesn’t even move.

"Who the fuck are you?" Hank asks, climbing out of his car. He has half a mind to go for his gun, but visibility is shit with the drizzle and he's still pretty smashed. Better not risk shooting out a window. “I don’t want what you’re selling, so gittout.”

"I'm not here to sell anything," they say, and turn towards Hank, a blue light pulsing from their right temple.

It’s a male-type android, dressed in business casual and marked in respective places in reflective blue and glowing white text. Hank can't make out the fucker's designation, but once he _does_ , he'll write a nicely worded letter to CyberLife about the invasive nature of whatever this new iBox 420 is in hopes they don't make it any more.

"Hello, Lieutenant Anderson," the android says. His voice is husky and lilting, boyish but not childish. "I'm Connor, an android that's been sent by CyberLife to assist law enforcement with certain criminal cases. I have currently been assigned to the Detroit Police Department.”

"Well you've fucking missed your stop, pal," Hank grunts, stomping forward towards his door. "The precinct is on the other fuckin' side of town."

The android tilts its head just slightly to the side. Like it's confused or something. "But the precinct is twenty minutes away by car, thirty by the regular bus route. The actual mileage is only --"

"I _know_ where I fucking work and how far away it is," Hank says. "And I am clearly not at work now."

"You're on call," the android corrects him. "In fact, you were contacted approximately two hours ago for a homicide investigation, and when you did not respond, the precinct told me that you would either be at home or at a bar near the precinct itself. I decided to come to your residence, as the probability of finding you at an unspecified bar in adequate time was not as statistically productive as simply waiting for you at your house."

"So, you're at my house," Hank says, folding his arms close to his chest, because it makes him look bigger. "And you found me."

"Yes."

"Now what?"

The android folds its own arms, like it’s mimicking Hank. "I take you to the crime scene."

"No, you won't." Hank walks right past him to his door. The security light goes on as he does. Which is pretty creepy, considering that means the android's been still long enough for the light to stop recognizing it as an intruder. Sumo's not even barking. _Fuuuck._

"Lieutenant Anderson," the 'droid says. It takes its first steps from its spot and Hank can hear the squelch of its shoes as it pulls free from the mud it's been sinking in. "You need to come with me. Your presence has been requested at the crime scene, and I am meant to accompany you."

"Look," Hank says, yanking his keys out of his coat pocket with a sharp jangle. "I'll see if they still need me, and if they do, I'll think about going. But I won't be going with you."

This seems to confuse it again. "What do you mean?"

"I don't work cases with androids."

The android makes this little reflexive frown. It's just a tick on its face. Probably some social protocol to make it look like it's got some kind of feelings. _So fucking creepy._

"But -- you _do_ ," it says. "There are multiple android series working at the --"

"Those damn models don't count. They're not mouthy, they're not invasive, and they're not stalkers. Like you," Hank says, gesturing wide enough to make his shoulder hurt. "Now get the hell off my property before I call the garbage collector, Colin."

"Connor."

"Whatever," Hank says, and tries to open his door with his car key.

He hears the android shift behind him and exhale, even though androids don’t breathe like people. It’s Hank’s own personal horror movie, right behind his back.

"Lieutenant," it says. It doesn't reach for him which is good, because Hank's mood has plummeted from grumpy to malicious and the thing would be on the ground with a single throw. "I can call a taxi and we can go right over, as I sense you are too inebriated to drive properly, despite your returning home in your car. Your expertise is required at the scene immediately."

"I -- _ugh._ ” Hank drags a hand down his face. He smells another disciplinary meeting with Fowler in his future if he doesn’t comply. “ _Look_ , Sparky, I need to walk my dog and get a DettOx in me. Stay -- stay out here.”

"Yes, Lieutenant," it says.

Hank takes his sweet time doing shit in his house. He drinks a Powderade and takes a DettOx and prays it’s enough to stave off at least half of the hangover. He walks Sumo, making sure to avoid drawing attention to them from the side kitchen door. He half expects to see the android staring at him like a stalker from the corner of his house, but no: it must’ve stayed put out in the steadily worsening rain, like it was told.

Hank refills Sumo’s water dish, then tosses his overcoat over a kitchen chair. He considers fishing his phone from it to call Jeffrey and bitch at him for dumping a fucking android on him, of _all_ fucking things, but he’d have to see all the shitty text messages he’s been ignoring all night. He staggers towards the bedroom to put on his sweatclothes and go take his before-bed piss when the doorbell rings, loud and obnoxious, for way longer than is necessary.

"Lieutenant?" A little voice from outside. _The android._

 _Fuck_ , Hank's forgotten. Of course the android's still fucking there. Waiting for him to go to work. A fucking assistant investigator android, who thinks that’s _ever_ going to be a good idea? Might as well make a Plan-a-Day Calendar into a person, for all the emotional sensitivity it'd have.

“I’m coming, hold on to your ass!” Hank yells. Sumo huffs in sympathetic noise. Hank grabs his Powerade and his phone, letting his coat drop to the floor. _Fuck_ , this evening’s already a nightmare and now it’s just gotten exponentially worse.

Hank stalks past the android and gets in the car. He's driving, whether the android likes it or not. It follows him, obediently sitting down and putting on his seatbelt with all the flourish of an 80’s PSA. And then it informs him that the sobering drug he's taken “is not always immediately effective” and “only works in certain cases at a rate of 78.3%” so he makes sure to swerve when he pulls out of the driveway to shut the thing up. Fucking tin can can’t even drink anything more than a diluted metal slurry, what the fuck does it know about alcohol anyway?

About a mile from the site, Hank sees signs of rubberneckers, an ambulance -- and _fuck’s_ sake, a news crew. He turns on his light and sirens to get people to move the fuck out of the way so he can park.

“Must be a slow night,” Hank grunts. “Past midnight and they’re giving a shit about this?”

The android looks at him, its brow twitching as it makes sense of his words. “The press is simply doing their job. A homicide is no small matter, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, my God,” Hank says. “Look. I’m going to check in and check it out. Stay in the damn car. Got it?”

The android does the little twitch again. “Yes, whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

Two yards from the doorway of the house and it's clear that this is not a _fresh_ homicide. It is very well past its expiration date. Even with what must've been over an hour and a half with the windows and doors open, it's still just this stagnant, sweltering tell of rotten person meat.

Human decomp is something you don't just get used to. Hank goes back to the 'droid at the caution tape and gets a face mask, tugging it on. Fuck if he's going to get something nasty from this place. He tugs on a pair of gloves and tries to see if his stomach is going to withstand walking any fucking closer to this mess. There's just continual internal alarm going off in his hind brain: _don't, don't, don't, don't_. He has to push past that. Everyone does. No matter how big or "alpha" you are, you've got to suck up this instinctual flight response to the stench of putrid fat and flesh.

One of Hank's boyfriends in school had explained it as such: "It's not just the smell of death itself. We get that way about -- Hank! Hank, get your hand out of there, I'm talking! -- any rotten meat, or vegetation, or waste, because it implies disease. Human death is something we want to avoid at all costs, and we attribute it a special level of terrible stench that I believe is psychosomatic in nature at times, but not in others. You have people say they can smell it in cars, in furniture -- what makes human smell worse? And it lingers on crime scene cleaners and morgue workers for days after -- is this turning you on, or something? _Hank!_ \-- and so many cultures have wrongfully assigned a supposed "unclean" class to those who handle the dead, which is the perhaps at its core the most necessary occupation any of our kind can take on --"

Hank's got perfect recall memory, or close enough to it, so he remembers having had enough of anthropological speculation and had trounced the guy, who definitely didn't complain about the change of topic. But it all scans, really. _No one_ wants to be reminded of looming mortality by inhaling its insidious perfume, getting it stuck in your mucus membranes and almost tossing up what little food you've had around shots of whiskey. Seeing it can be bad enough. Smelling it's almost the same as tasting it. It's bad business.

"Something for under your nose, Lieutenant?"

Hank almost leaves his skin behind, jumping like he does.

"Jee- _zus!_ I thought I told you to stay in the car!"

"Your orders contradicted my programmed directives," it says.

"Ugh," Hank says. He tugs his mask down to his chin, making a face his new android pal. It apparently has clearance enough to get past the actual police ‘droids and the caution tape. "Whatever. Just don't -- touch anything, don't talk --"

"If that does not contradict my --" it starts.

"Whatever!" Hank snaps. His head's starting to hurt as the DettOx starts to make him sweat, but he's not going to start slamming his drink with rot in his nostrils. "Look, just -- follow me. What were you saying before you fucking ghosted up on me?"

The android holds its hand out rather pointedly. Something long and yellow is in his hand, with a familiar red cap.

"I have some Carmex," it says. It tilts his head -- it's beginning to remind him of a damn dog, now -- the rain slicking some of its brown hair to its brows. "It has both menthol and camphor, so you may find it useful to ward off the smell of decomposi--"

"You got this from _my_ car," Hank says, stern. He takes the little yellow tube from its hands and shakes it like a codger shaking a cane. "So yeah, I _know_ what it's for."

"Then," it says, tilting its head the other way and looking Hank up and down in a rather deliberate manner, "why don't you use it, Lieutenant?"

This android is trouble. Hank is just going to confront it now. It's got a smart mouth, that’s just been established. And, worse, it’s been made to look like the most beautiful young man, something right at the cusp of thirty, all the awkwardness of youth stripped away. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones and jaw, a dimpled chin and cheeks. Its skin tone is white, porcelain in a way that'd be absolutely destroyed by summer otherwise, scattered in freckles and dotted in places with moles. Its eyes are well-carved and soulfully shaped, thoughtfully lashed with dark irises. And, Jesus, the _mouth_ it has. Hank had noticed on the way over and wished he hadn't. All soft and pink and pooched in unconscious thought.

It's enough to make a man scream. Hank almost does, for a variety of reasons. He hold sit in, smears some Carmex over his mustache, then snaps the face mask on.

"Happy now?" he asks it.

"Yes," it says.

"Then come with me," Hank says.

He stalks up and over to the open door. He wishes he was at home. The smell of dead human seeps in past the Carmex.

The state of the place shows that whatever android was living here before its owner's demise was dealing with a Sisyphean task of keeping this place in any sort of order. Hank's seen this kind of thing before: a house with a 'droid that doesn't look like it _has_ a 'droid, and it's not the 'droid's fault it's a mess. Aside from some of the take-out that's now molding through its containers, the place looks like it has that " _this is my trash, I love my trash, and my abusive Oscar the Grouch ass wants to live in this trash_ ". If you don't tell a 'droid it can go outside and take said trash to the curb, it's not going to do it.

Unless it's some pretty boy high tech 'droid that Hank's met up with tonight. Kid does not listen to a damn thing.

"Hey," Hank asks it, before they get too far in. "Connor."

It swivels around with an eerie smoothness. "Yes, Lieutenant Anderson?"

"What's the phrase -- _Supply Pronoun Set to End User_ ," Hank says. If it's meant to adjust to humans in any way -- despite _this_ 'droid being as expressive as an ATM -- there's probably a set coded into it so that it can recognize itself if being discussed in conversation. Conversations people wanted it to notice, anyway.

"Traditional Masculine Pronouns," Connor recites, little LED flickering, with some classic robot inflection. "He, him, his are appropriate."

"All right," Hank says. He scratches his jaw to no real satisfaction -- his gloves prevent the actual scratch from happening. Sighing, he trudges towards the source of the smell: the bloated body of a pot-bellied man slumped against the living room wall, beneath a phrase written in blood: _I AM ALIVE._

"There you are." Detective Ben Collins. A little younger and a little pudgier than Hank, he's one of Hank's oldest pals on the force. "We thought you weren't coming."

"I didn't plan on it," Hank says, gesturing behind him. "Until the precinct sent a damn hound after me to drag me to the crime scene."

Collins's grey brows raise high on his face. " _You_ listened to an _android?_ "

Hank makes a smile that's mostly just teeth. "Apparently."

"Our luck you did," Collins says. He shuffles away from the dead man, drawing his face mask down as he approaches Hank. "You missed smelling the place before we opened the windows."

"Sad I missed it. Coroner on its way?" Hank asks. He vaguely notices Connor inching around near them, looking at things -- and touching them, damn it -- but whatever. Androids don't have fingerprints. "I figure decomp in the summer is going to fuck up time of death."

"You bet," Collins mutters. "Anyway, victim’s name is Carlos Ortiz. He's on the books with aggravated assault, narcotics possession, petty theft. Neighbors say he was a loner, didn’t really leave his house. They began noticing things stacking up outside but didn't bother reporting it because that was normal, clutter's sort of this guy's thing. Landlord hadn't gotten payment on the rent, came by in the evening to threaten with eviction and found -- _this_."

"And 'this' was all worth dragging everyone out tonight? He's not getting dead-er. What's one extra night?" Hank mutters, grabbing a LuminoLamp, running it over the corpse's form. Collins didn't have anything to say to that.

"His android's missing," Collins says.

Hank squints at him like's he's trying to read tiny text. "And this matters _because_ \--?"

"He might've seen something," Collins replies, shaking his head. "Come on, Hank. Just do your job. I'm going to get some air."

Hank watches Collins go. There's a knot in his stomach that just isn't resolving, and he knows what it is. He's trying to ignore it as best he's able, so he doesn’t name the beast. He’ll just -- keep working, like Collins said.

"Hey, Lieutenant." Chris Miller steps up near him, handing him a flat tablet for Hank's use. He can tell the kid's smiling under his mask and Hank feels instantly less shitty. "There's more things we've found in the kitchen, but we're still trying to search the area for -- well, any sign of the android, really. What a mess of a place, huh?"

"Yeah," Hank says. He leans back and looks at one of the evidence markers. "I saw some Red on this guy's nose that's still bright so it know it ain't blood. That his stash over there? I swear I can see it smoking."

"The only stash we've found so far," Miller says. "Don't worry, I'm already seeing if he was a pusher."

"Attaboy," Hank says, grinning up at Miller. "You free from ol' Scooter tonight, Chris?"

Miller laughs. "For now, Fozzie. Nah, Reed's chilling at the station tonight, he had some shit to wrap up. Can't wait for him to see you got yourself an android --"

"Jesus, don't even mention that," Hank hisses, "I didn't ask for it!"

"All right, all right," Miller says, his dark face still lit up with his hidden grin. "You'll get to introduce him."

Miller's a bright kid, a great cop with a stellar record, and shooting right to be a Detective by the turn of the year. He's being fostered by everyone to succeed, Collins and Hank especially, clucking around him like fat old brooding hens. He also gets touch of favoritism from an unlikely source -- Detective Gavin Reed -- so he's constantly part of a weird custodial tug-of-war in the office, a hot commodity to drag along to a scene. Miller knows it's the best way to get that promotion, and it is the only reason he's out here now: his wife's just about to pop with their first kid, so he probably wants to be home almost as much as Hank does.

So, Hank's going to make sure that he's getting the workout he needs. "All right, Chris. Tell me what you think."

"I don't think it's a robbery," Miller says. "The Ice that's still sealed has been left alone and it'd be worth at least a few hundred. There's not a lot of valuables to speak of, either, just -- junk, things he's kept, but we've found some money and coins stashed away that'd be easy for a robber to snatch. We’ve got a murder, and a personal one at that. At least, I think it’s personal.”

"Yeah, this guy suffered some serious overkill," Hank says, sighing. He flicks through the tablet and sees the vague layout of the house. He tries to focus. Either he needs glasses or his head is reminding him the DettOx is going to kick his ass as badly as a hangover. "So, loner, got attacked and no one gave a shit about the drugs or the money. Time of death is obscured 'cause of the summer heat, the coroner's going to have a shit of a time without the entomologist --"

"Nineteen days," says a quiet, husky little voice.

The android. Hank jerks around. Miller reacts mildly. He's not still half-drunk like Hank is.

"What?" Hank asks.

"Probable date of death is August 8, 2038," Connor says, beginning a little pantomime. "I've also confirmed that the blood on this knife is, indeed, the victim's. This is, I believe, the potential the murder wea --"

"How the hell did you figure that out?"

Connor tilts his head. _God._ "I test samples in real time," he says. He shows his fingers. Which are tacky with brown clotted blood. And then fucking _puts them in his mouth_ to demonstrate.

No amount of camphor and menthol is going to help tamp down Hank's horror over this revelation. "What the _fuck?_ That's disgusting!"

"It's one of my many notable functions to assist crime scene investigations," Connor says, standing. "I am able to not only do basic DNA analysis, but I am equipped with the ability to detect moved and recently displaced items to see how a crime scene has been disturbed, confirm samples as inorganic or organic and identify them, distinguish animal and human waste, hair, and blood, limited but effective onsite spectrometer measurement, and I can also create a 3D reconstruction from the --"

"Jesus! Fine! You're the best thing since sliced bread, fucking shut up already!" Hank barks.

He's a little too loud, saying this. All the techs and officers look his way with a mixture of confusion and disdain -- in some cases, this sad, resigned kind of pity. Hank tries to fight being pissed off at them, because if he shouts again, he’ll just keep sounding like a mean old drunk on the crime scene.

Which he is. Has become.

"Hey, I got a tip," Miller says, jovial. He’s such a good kid, because the shit he has to put up with from Hank (and Reed) to get his job done has made him great at deescalating departmental tension. "You definitely want to check out the bathroom when you’re done looking over the scene. I gotta go check out the bedroom again and catalog some of the weapons we’ve found.”

"Yeah. Thanks, Chris," Hank says, sighing. He runs a hand through his hair. Strands catch painfully in the latex.

Connor doesn't make any remarks to any of this. Like he's obeying the "shut up" part of Hank's request for now. He stands up, straightens his tie with his clean hand and -- thank fuck -- takes out a packet of wipes from his jacket. The 'droid wipes his tongue down and then his fingers. At some point he's grabbed a baggie from the evidence kit and puts the used wipe in there. Fucking stamp that thing with biohazard, Jesus.

Hank's still teetering on dehydration and drunk, off kilter from losing his temper, but he's able to hold himself up fine. He decides to take it easy and watches the 'droid do his search around the house.

Connor's efficient, which should be a given. Hank's honestly never seen something with such fluid hydraulic movements kneel and rise, like some kind of plastic danseur. When he heads towards the back door, Hank's sufficiently intrigued enough to see how good the android's deduction software really is.

It's still drizzling rain. The android is standing, head moving slowly as it -- _he_ \-- scans the ground.

"Door was locked from the inside," Hank comments. "That might not mean too much. Murderer heads out this way, maybe the android locks it before it fucks off."

"There's no tracks," the android says.

"It's been weeks," Hank insists.

"This type of soil retains tracks well, regardless of precipitation. The only tracks are from Detective Collins's boots." The android looks at Hank, almost human with his expression and his one-off CSI: Miami line: "No one's been out here for a _long_ time."

"All right then," Hank says, shrugging. _Not bad._

The android makes his way around the kitchen. He's not putting things into his mouth again, thank fuck. He sees things in the room that, as he'd said earlier, have been "disturbed". Apparently there is: _a knife missing from the rack_ , and that knife is in the living room on the floor, the measurements have been made to place it there, _logged_ ; _there are sets of fingerprints_ on various kitchen furniture that show Ortiz's pathway to the living room, _logged_.

There's the bat, next. Dented, Hank can see. Fingerprints on the grip: Ortiz. Logged. And, apparently, traces of Thirium in the dent.

The android walks the blood-stained trail more than once. He gently avoids all the crime techs and officers, in the way androids are programmed to do -- a no-collision protocol. After about the third pass, he says, “I have a theory, Lieutenant Anderson.”

"Do you," Hank says. He gestures. If this silicon wonder gets things wrapped up sooner than later, he can grab a cold water or another drink. "I'm all ears."

"It started in the kitchen," the android says, leading Hank through the dry ribcage of the cracked walls to walk him through a reenactment. "The blood splatter shows where the attacker took the knife from the wall and struck him. The blood splatter is also on the discarded bat, which leads me to believe it was being used when Ortiz suffered the first blow.”

“Okay, that follows.”

The android’s LED processes yellow briefly before resolving. When he speaks, there's an affected human hesitance. “As for the rest -- I should let you know that I hypothesize that it wasn’t an intruder, Lieutenant Anderson. It was, I believe, Ortiz's android itself that killed him."

"Android," Hank repeats, pausing to process the information. " _His_ android."

"Yes, Lieutenant Anderson."

"Okay, that's -- weird," Hank says, shoving his hands in his raincoat pockets, grunting. "Any android homicide we've ever seen has been them being used like weapons _for_ their owners. And sure, sometimes androids go screwy -- but those aren't murders, just mindless butcher bloodbaths, no weapons other than bare hands. This -- is a straight up _murder_."

"Overkill," the android murmurs, walking around the table, his fingers going white against its surface as he drags his hands there like he's checking for dust, "is a personal thing, and not often in stranger homicides. Considering Ortiz's use of Red Ice, which increases aggression, and his numerous convictions for aggravated assault --"

Hank tries not to scream, _get it the fuck over with you showy piece of plastic junk_ , but the android has that dancer’s grace to him all the same, something that's easy on the eyes as he kneels before the dented bat on the ground.

"-- I feel that the victim struck the android multiple times, before an emotional shock caused it to deviate," Connor says. Hank thinks for a moment he'll touch his fingers to the bat and then lick them like before. Thank _God_ he doesn't. "Thirium eventually effervesces and becomes invisible, but traces remain long after. It's on this bat, as I stated earlier."

"So, the android was being attacked by Ortiz -- trying to defend itself?" Hank says, not realizing how bizarre that sounds coming out of his mouth. Androids don't defend themselves. They just sort of take what comes at them. But, if something inside them decided enough was enough -- fuck, Hank doesn't want to think about those implications at all. _God, I hate androids._

"In a fashion. There are responses as such programmed in us," Connor says, "as we are often owned machines, and thus attempt to preserve ourselves for the sake of our operators. In this case, however, to go against the owner is to break direct orders rather than respond to a situation."

Connor stands. He brushes off his pants and studies his shoes. He pushes his hair back and fixes his tie. Then he turns fluidly to look at Hank. "Once the android knew it could use the knife beyond its original restrictions, it chased the victim to the living room."

Hank follows him. He watches the android dip to avoid Miller walking towards them, then move aside instinctively to let Hank pass in front of him.

"Go on," Hank says.

The android points out the blood trail. "There was a mild scuffle, where Ortiz got his defensive wounds, and then the android, after finally cornering and overpowering Ortiz --" Then he gestures to the rotting body, "-- had stabbed him to death, twenty-eight times to be exact."

"You counted."

Connor tilts his head. Hank's never seen an android do this as much as he does. Most of the time, if they're processing, they're just blinking creepily. Not this 'droid. It's probably some sort of attempt at an "I'm _so_ interested" social gesture, which is bullshit. It just looks like the android is judging him.

"Of _course_ I counted," the android says, smoothly, eyebrows tugging down. _Holy shit, he_ is _judging me._

"Well, Connor," Hank says, fighting a scowl, “let's say your idea of an android killing its owner isn't totally out of the question. Where'd an android like that go?"

"Because it was damaged, I'll be able to get a lead on where it went afterwards," Connor says. "I'm able to see Thirium after the liquid's evaporated."

His pupils go a reflective purple upon saying that, fox-like and unnerving in the shitty light of the crime scene. He scans around their feet, face blank, even as his body moves like a person’s. The juxtaposition makes Hank's skin crawl. 

Abruptly, Hank's new plastic partner stops short, then frowns dramatically before his face goes completely blank as he processes something.

"Find something you didn't like?" Hank asks, not sure if he wants to disturb Connor while he's buffering.

"Not exactly," Connor says, clipped. He looks up at Hank with his unsettling inhuman eyes, which only help to make his next words more chilling: "Tell your men to set up a parameter, immediately. I believe it's still in the house."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wife, Shoi, for all her help with blocking scenes out, brainstorming characters and scenes, and for encouraging me to play the QTE social studies nightmare that is this game.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/seohyun) & [tumblr](http://tselina.tumblr.com/)! Come chatter at me. :D


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